Death of the King
by flevrdelacour
Summary: Death was rather unbecoming of him. A man who was feared by all, had destroyed so many, a king-no, a god among wizards. He couldn't have simply been killed by a simple seventeen-year-old boy.


Death was rather unbecoming of him. A man, who was feared by all, who had destroyed so many, a king-no, a god among wizards. He couldn't have simply been killed by a simple seventeen-year-old boy thrown all his faith into love. A useless notion.

But, yet, he found himself in an empty space. Everything was black. He was alone. The walls of the Great Hall had disappeared in a flash of green light and had been replaced by nothingness. Absolutely nothing. He was nothing. Nothing.

Then came the light.

The hallway was grey. A steel grey, a cold grey. Doors lines each side of it, feeling as if decisions waiting to be made. Which one of us will you pick? He knew which one was the right one. The one on the very end. It was always on the end.

He had thought the hallway was empty at first, but then he heard an intake of breath. An old man in blue robes sat on a bench on the left side of hall, as if he had materialized, not seen by his original inspection.

"Dumbledore," he roared and reached into the pockets of the robe he was unexpectedly wearing. But then he noticed his hands. They had regained their original coloring. No longer pale white, instead a shade or two lighter than that. A human shade. His hands were wrinkled and his fingers crooked. Age spots spattered his hands like the blood on the wall of the Shrieking Shack. He was… aged.

"Aaa," his hands shook and within a blink of an eye, a mirror appeared in them, showing his face. His hair had grown back, white and brittle. After touching it, pieces came out in his hand. His eyes had sunken into his face from all the wrinkling around them. Wrinkles, wrinkles, wrinkles. They lined his whole face. He looked like a battle had been fought across his face. He dropped the mirror, but it made no sound as it hit the ground. Gone was Voldemort, the image he had so carefully crafted for himself, a terror to the Wizarding World, scaring children, petrifying adults, terrifying even the most accomplished wizards. Back was Tom Marvolo Riddle, the half-blood with the Muggle scum for a father and a pitiful witch for a mother, an orphan, unwanted and unloved, not even conceived from a union of love, but of trickery. The boy, the man who fought tooth and nail to get where he was only to have it torn away by a rebounding spell. He was rotting, old, done for, no longer even alive.

"Hello, Tom," Dumbledore said pleasantly. He hadn't moved from his spot on the bench, "Sit with me."

Tom hissed, but the sound came out wheezy and hoarse and illegible.

Dumbledore simply gave him a sympathetic smile.

"You're an old man," he said simply.

Tom had no response, for he was right. Despite the man being at least 50 years his senior, Dumbledore had a healthier and stronger look than he did.

"You went after the Deathly Hallows," Dumbledore continued. "Just like me," a sad look molded onto his face, "And it ended just like it did for me. In pain. In death."

"It ended because that foolish boy. Because of you," Tom wheezed and tried to reach for his wand again, realizing again he didn't have it.

Dumbledore shook his head, "It ended because of your own mistakes."

Tom ranted, "I was going to be a god. I would never die. I would have cleansed the world of the filth and reigned in my own empire. I would have-"

"You never would have," Dumbledore cut him off, "No one is meant to conquer death. Everyone had their time to go. This would be yours, Tom."

Throughout the whole conversation, Dumbledore's facial expression hadn't changed. He looked just as he did when he was explaining magic to him for the first time in the room at the very end of the hall. Like he was speaking to a child who had so much to learn.

But Tom was not a child. He was a god. He had killed his own family. He had gotten away with murder at the age of 15. He had been the downfall of the Britain's most powerful wizard. He had conquered the Ministry of Magic. He had invaded Hogwarts. He was-

killed by a seventeen-year-old halfblood.

The presence of the door at the end of the hall felt unbearable now. Nothing was unique about, but some sort of energy seemed to be pulsing from it. A dark energy.

"That's your end, Tom," Dumbledore said, noticing his staring at the door, "That's where it ends for you."

Tom tore his gaze away from it and focused a brick in the wall. One that had a chip in it from the time he had thrown Robert Smithens, a rather tubby boy with an attitude even larger than he was, against it (Resulting to Muggle violence was a low in his life. He promised he would never stoop so low after that). The hall had been recreated to perfect, not a single detail out of place. Every chip, every scuff, every stain, every time it had painted over because a child had damaged, every time it didn't work because the paint was cheap and only attracted more attention to the spot.

"You can't deny death any longer," Dumbledore informed him, "Death had been waiting much too long for you to be able to do that."

Tom continued to ignore him, staring at the wall, crossing his arms. He cringed as he heard the different bones in his arm clicking together with his motion, but quickly rearranged his face to what he believed was indifference, but instead gave him the look of a petulant child, so odd on a man so old.

Dumbledore smiled at the sight, but it was a sad smile. The smile of pity. Someone who felt sorry. Tom was so desperately holding on to the sham of a life he had created. To the immortality he had craved to capture all of these years. He couldn't let that all go in one moment. But Dumbledore could wait, just like he did for Harry when he decided to go back. So when Tom's resolve to live finally crumbled, when he finally realized going back wasn't an option, when he decided to accept death for what it was, Dumbledore would lead the old, frail, shaky man down the hall to his old room. He would open the door for him.

The door would open and the darkness would flood in. The nothingness would set back in. Dumbledore would be gone. There would be only darkness. Tom would be nothing. Nothing.

Nothing.

Death was another adventure, they say, but not for one who has used their life to destroy other life. For them, there was only darkness. Emptiness. Nothing.

/

A short take on the death of Voldemort. Please leave any compliments or criticism in review :).

-Hannah


End file.
